


Under the Circumstances

by hophophop



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Huddling For Warmth, Hypothermia, cuddle or die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 04:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8130025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/pseuds/hophophop
Summary: “I’m glad I made it to the animate category.”
The temperature had dropped significantly, and he felt himself start to tremble from the cold. He took a deep breath and braced his abdominals before cautiously drawing Watson out of the fireman’s hold over his shoulder, and now he could feel the chill dampness exposed on his back, where she’d been. He attempted to set her on her feet, willing her to stir, to resist his support, react somehow to the ignominious treatment of her person. Her ankles and knees immediately gave way and he tightened his grip to ease her all the way down to the ground. “I really don’t know what I did to deserve this cold shoulder,” he said to her. “And I shall hold you responsible for the indignity of that poor excuse for double entendre.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beanarie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie/gifts).



> [beanarie asked](http://beanarie.tumblr.com/post/150621018938/bangs-fist-on-table-where-is-my-fic-of-joan): *bangs fist on table* where is my fic of joan & sherlock cuddling for warmth in their undies because skin to skin is the best way to prevent hypothermia
> 
> I had the start of this fic in my drafts folder and pulled it out in response to the call to action. but then beanarie went on to answer her own question with a gorgeous prompt fill that perfectly described what I'd only just started to imagine in my head. So "Under the Circumstances" became something of an inadvertent remix, as I tried to avoid outright plagiarizing the scene beanarie described so well in [Strange Bedfellows](http://beanarie.tumblr.com/post/150717661063).

They’d been scouting the abandoned half-built condo tower for five hours when the storm took a turn for the worse. Sherlock’s preferred weather prediction model had put the chances of this at less than 20% when they set out that morning. By mid-afternoon white-out conditions brought visibility outside the building to nil, and the wind obliterated any significant shelter the building’s shell might have provided. Of course he couldn’t get a cell signal to check for an update the weather report, let alone make contact with the nominal taxi service that had taken them the 12 miles from the dilapidated bus station to the intended suburban development that hadn’t survived the collapse of the most recent mortgage bubble.

While he appreciated Watson’s restraint in not expressing a string of recriminations for their circumstances, her silence had stretched out for over an hour now and was feeling more and more like reproach to his guilty conscience. Her elbow to his kidney did not improve his mood, and he looked up to hiss in irritation just in time to throw out his arm, preventing her from stumbling off the unfinished balcony ledge.

He shoved her flush to the wall and collapsed back against it himself. Nine deep breaths for his heart rate to drop back below 100 bpm and he realized his arm was still pressed across her ribs and she still hadn’t said a word.

“Watson—“ he started, shifting to see her face, and observed the lines deepen between her brows and draw down the sides of her parted mouth as she panted, eyes clenched shut. Elevated respiration, dark shadows under her eyes, pallor everywhere else, and a faint rapid flicker at her jugular he hoped was an optical illusion from the heavy snowfall and not an accurate indication of her pulse.

He fumbled for his water bottle, popping the cap open. “Drink,” he ordered, sloshing the contents in case his voice wasn’t sufficient to get her attention. She twisted her face away but her right arm came up, and he pushed the bottle into her grip. It slipped when he started to let go, so he held on and guided it up to her lips. Half a swallow ran down her chin, but after a moment her arm steadied and she tugged the bottle from him, drinking the whole thing down in smooth gulps.

“Thanks,” she said, voice almost inaudible. “Why did we stop?” He looked at her sharply, but she still hadn’t opened her eyes.

“I needed to catch my breath.” He took the empty bottle back from her before she dropped it and carefully stowed it in his pack to stall. After a moment observing her he tested, “How long has it been since we ate?”

“No idea.” She sagged against the wall, knees buckling as she struggled to prop herself up. “Not hungry but I might have a snack bar in my pocket if you want it.” Her hand weakly patted the side of her coat for a few seconds before slowing and falling still. “I think I’m gonna sit down for a minute while you eat that.”

She started to tilt and he pushed her back up. “No, no, no resting. Watson.” He gave her a little shake, and her head lolled, unresponsive. “Watson!” He shouted into her face, and to his relief she twisted, trying to get away from him, one arm batting against the other where he gripped her bicep.

“Jeez, would you just let me sleep? You never let me sleep.” She listed away from him, sinking toward the floor again.

“Watson!” he barked. “Look where we are,” and he shook her arm again, trying to rouse her enough to open her eyes. “You’re suffering from—“ He hesitated, not sure what to tell her, not sure what was going on. Hypothermia possibly; he couldn’t tell if she’d gotten wet somehow. Or perhaps she’d been ill before they left and kept it to herself. He hadn’t time to deduce what or when. “You’re not well. I didn’t realize— We have to find shelter, now. We have to keep moving.”

—————

She was eminently practical. They had a decade of history together during which time he was confident — _confident_ — he’d never given her a single moment of unease or concern in this regard. Well, aside from the occasional quip about which she chose to have no sense of humour. And he might have been a tad insensitive with regard to Mycroft from time to time. (But honestly, no court in the land would condemn him for _that_.) Nevertheless, he felt fairly certain that she would not question his motives or his decision, once she was made aware of the facts. More or less certain. Once she was aware.

They’d finally made their way to an interior section where the walls blocked most of the wind and the floor was relatively clear of debris, but some dim light still penetrated, at least for another hour or two. The temperature had dropped significantly, and he felt himself start to tremble from the cold. He took a deep breath and braced his abdominals before cautiously drawing Watson out of the fireman’s hold over his shoulder, and now he could feel the chill dampness exposed on his back, where she’d been. He attempted to set her on her feet, willing her to stir, to resist his support, react _somehow_ to the ignominious treatment of her person. Her ankles and knees immediately gave way and he tightened his grip to ease her all the way down to the ground. “I really don’t know what I did to deserve this cold shoulder,” he said to her. “And I shall hold you responsible for the indignity of that poor excuse for double entendre.”

 _Just get on with it man_ , he chided himself, and unzipped Watson’s mysteriously sodden coat and removed her gloves as quickly as he could; his fingers felt thick and sluggish. She didn’t stir, which simultaneously made the process easier and chilled him deeper than the frigid wind keening through the building’s many absent windows. He pulled off a mitten and carefully slipped two fingers under her collar in search of her pulse. The beat was rapid and not quite steady, but reassuringly present. Less reassuring was her lack of response to the touch. A stark contrast to his own reaction, as he absorbed the new data.

Under normal circumstances — well, in any other context he could imagine, really — these data would never be collected, not by him. Whether they were in their own kitchen or at a crime scene or in the observation room at the station, his fingers would not ever slip past her hair into the shadows beneath or have reason to press lightly against the column of her neck or the underside of her jaw for 20, 30, 45 seconds. _Ah! There it was._ It would never occur to him to wish that touching her might warm his cold hands, let alone need to swallow the fear when he initially felt nothing under her chilled skin. Under better circumstances, say perhaps during a long stake-out with no suspect in sight, it was true he might perhaps hold his breath to better count her rate of respiration to ensure she was awake, but hardly from a proximity of mere centimetres. He’d long ago deduced how much she weighed but never imagined he’d experience the visceral drag of limbs and distribution of mass without her consciousness present to manage them herself. He did not manhandle Watson, and certainly not ever without her express consent. It was all wrong, utterly wrong, and he was making it worse with this thick-headed delay. _Stop dithering_.

He slid his hand further back to cradle her skull and used the other to peel her coat off one side and pull her arm out of the sleeve, then switched hands to do the other side, more quickly and with less finesse. She remained a deadweight in his grasp, and her fingernails had a bluish tinge not present when he first removed her gloves. He needed to speed things up.

“Watson!” He shouted into her face. He thought perhaps an eyelid twitched? But it could have been an involuntary response to the force of his breath. He sat back on his haunches to reach her boots, which were the opposite of waterproof and halfway to frozen stiff. He was rough and hurried now, stripping off her wet socks as well, and then stretching up again to find the fastening of her trousers and pull them off. There was a long bruise on the outside of her right thigh, but in the failing light he couldn’t discern how old it might be. No time for assessment now.

He knelt up again to remove her shirt, as ever wondering how she survived wearing such lightweight layers in the winter and then scowled to himself at the thought. At least it was a silk blend, not all cotton. It needed to come off now, but he’d keep it with them, and she could put it on again once she was able. She looked even smaller where she lay crumpled on her parka, and after rolling her onto her side and tugging her knees to bend toward her torso, he covered her with his coat to focus on getting his own clothing removed as fast as he could.

“Don’t get too comfortable there by yourself, we’re going to have to share rather close quarters this evening.” His teeth chattered so hard the words were unintelligible. He spread his clothes on the ground next to the small mound of Watson. He was shivering so badly he almost jerked his coat off her when he finally shifted her over to the drier pile. He observed dully that it was getting harder to maintain his concentration. He was trying to puzzle out how best to fit them both under his coat when he finally remembered his pack and fumbled through it. It took far longer than it should to find the compact package Watson had added to their supplies. He’d rolled his eyes at her pessimism, but it was hardly a burden, so he’d kept it mostly to humour her.

On the third try he got it open and with barely functioning fingers shook the shiny Mylar emergency blanket out of its crinkly folds. One corner was tucked under her feet, and then he arranged himself behind her, pushed his coat off to one side, draped the silver sheet over them both, and pulled his coat back on top to help hold it in place. After that it was something like a one-sided shoving match to settle himself and wrap them both as completely as possible, all the while shaking uncontrollably and jostling her in the process. He hoped he hadn’t left bruises in his attempt to work out the best placement of the arms each of them were lying on. If she still had sufficient circulation to form bruises. He shifted his hand just under her collar bone until he made contact with her heart beat, but he was too numb to be sure it wasn’t his own heart’s desperate rhythm instead.

—————

She felt something tickle her back, and she squirmed to avoid it, only to find that she was held firmly in place. She couldn’t remember where she was, but she knew she’d been with Sherlock before, so who was this now? What—? She tried to twist away again, but her body felt heavy and awkward.

“It’s me,” Sherlock said in the dark, and she knew his voice, knew it was him, and yet she couldn’t make sense of it. What was he doing there? And what was she doing here? He interrupted her panic with a brief squeeze of his hand on her forearm. “Do you know what happened?”

As he spoke, she could feel him shift slightly against her back, answering a question she hadn’t quite been conscious enough to ask and solving the mysterious tickle. The events of the last twelve hours gradually fell into place. Their phones were dead, and it would be another two hours until sunrise. They’d assess the conditions for walking out then: both the weather conditions and her own; neither of them knew why she’d succumbed so quickly to the cold or what would happen when she tried to stand up again. There was nothing to do now but wait, and other than suggesting she engage in isometric exercises to revive her stiff muscles, he seemed to have nothing more to say.

She felt a little embarrassed, not so much for their state of undress — he’d actually trotted out “dishabille” when explaining his actions, and she’d almost laughed out loud — but for not remembering what happened, and for not sharing the awkwardness of having to make that choice. For all the times he made fun of her alleged prudery, she was the one who wandered around the Brownstone in t-shirts and shorts, while he buttoned his shirts to the throat and wore a vest and suit jacket more often than not. He certainly didn’t cover himself out of shame or modesty, she knew, but rather pride and some very strong personal boundaries he hated to cross. Physical displays of affection apparently crossed that line. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him touch someone like that, not in the ten years she’d known him.

Which wasn’t to suggest that their current circumstances qualified as anything like PDA, she hurriedly assured herself. It appeared similar in form only, not function. Still, that wouldn’t change the fact that it must be a strain to be stuck here with her, like this. She could feel him take his own advice, tightening and relaxing different muscle groups, and when the bicep under her head twitched, it nudged her into blurting, “Sorry. I know you don’t like… you’d rather not… I just mean, I know you don’t like hugs — not that this is one — but this is probably unpleasant. _More_ unpleasant.” She winced a bit and shifted her head to free his arm.

“There’s no need to apologize for the unavoidable. You did not intentionally endanger your life in order to coerce me into an embrace.” He sounded half amused, half irritated, which had the benefit of sparking her pique.

“Pretty sure I didn’t do it unintentionally either.” She stopped herself from pointing out she’d suggested they wait until the forecast looked better. “No part of me, conscious or unconscious, was looking for a way to _force_ you to cuddle. Anyway, it sort of defeats the purpose, if you have to make someone fake their feelings about you.”

“There is a vast gulf between ‘prefers to limit physical contact’ and ‘fakes emotional connection.’” He was definitely irritated now, and so was she.

“I _know_. But on top of all the other ways this trip has gone wrong, I’m aware that you’d rather not be stuck to my side in a Mylar cocoon. I know there’s nothing to be done about it. I just wanted you to know that _I_ know it’s not making anything easier. Being this close is not exactly a source of comfort for you.” She gritted her teeth against the embarrassment and frustration of trying to explain. It felt like a long time before he replied, but it wasn’t the defensive brush-off she expected.

“But it is for you?”

She was silent for a moment then, holding her breath for a beat before releasing it slowly. “Yeah. As a rule, I usually like it. You know. Hugging. Or holding. Whatever. It’s better when not required to stave off hypothermia and when both parties enjoy it. But yes. It’s comforting. And right now, under the circumstances, it’s relatively comfortable. Sort of. But your presence, and the physical contact, that makes me feel better in a stressful situation.” She gave a little shrug. “I just wish I could return the favor.”

He exhaled softly against the back of her head and was quiet long enough that she would have thought he’d dozed off, if not for the undercurrent of tension she felt in his posture. Maybe something she’d said had reminded him of the case that had brought them out here in the first place, or of some other puzzle held in reserve for a dull moment. She closed her eyes, almost dozing off herself before he suddenly continued.

“I am not _un_ comfortable in this position with you. Under the circumstances, as you say.” He was quiet for a long pause again and then continued more quietly than before, almost whispering.

“It’s a great source comfort to me, Watson. That you did not…” She felt him shudder, then swallow. “And I am comforted by the reminder of that fact under my arm and against my chest every time your ribs expand.” He pressed his arm more firmly against her side, tightening his hold and pulling her just a tiny bit closer to him.

She smiled to herself, and took a deep breath, and adjusted her grip on him to return the favor.


End file.
